shadow of britain

Chapter 618 Hemorrhoids Not Healed
To Pushkin:

Dear Alexander, I have to tell you something very unfortunate. Because my hemorrhoids have not healed and I have caught a cold, I now have a thick scarf wrapped around my neck, like a yoke on a horse's neck. The doctor told me that from all appearances, this illness will keep me at home for a week. But even so, I have decided not to wait in vain. You know, since the news of the establishment of Kiev University came out, I have always wanted to work in the Russian Literature Department there. Maksimovich also wants to seek a chair in world history at Kiev University.

I thought to myself: Go there! Go to Kiev! Go to ancient and beautiful Kiev! It is the birthplace of our motherland. I can work, I will work with all my strength. But at the same time, I am also afraid. Maybe I will achieve nothing. I am tired of Petersburg, or it is better to say that I hate it not because of the city itself, but because of its cursed climate. This climate is really torturous, especially for someone like me who suffers from hemorrhoids.

How wonderful it would be if Maximovich and I both got a professorship at Kiev University! We could do many good things and start a new life in such a beautiful place! There we could recover our physical strength and refresh our spirit. Isn't this a great blessing from heaven? But what embarrasses me is what should I do if this thing doesn't go as I wish?

Three years ago I could have gotten the chair at Moscow University that was recommended to me, but the then Minister of Education, Levin, was a short-sighted fellow and nobody took our work seriously, which was really sad. But the new Minister of Education, Uvarov, is an expert, and I am confident that if I can have a chance to talk about my plan, then in Uvarov's eyes, he will distinguish me from the group of listless professors who fill the universities.

For this purpose, I even dragged my sick body to Kiev. I thought that I should have a good talk with the Kiev Inspector Bradkai. After all, the report he submitted to the Ministry of Education would probably be more useful than our messing around in St. Petersburg. But the annoying thing was that I ran into a wall there. Bradkai didn't even meet me. He probably thought I was a poor scholar from some remote place. I am a person with the rank of eighth-class civil servant! I am not a novice, and I have been engaged in teaching for quite a long time, although it was in a women's college...

Alexander, seriously, if you want to help, when you write to Bradkai, you can hint at my situation like this: you can say that if you can recruit Gogol to the university, you will have done a great thing. Then you can say that you really don't know anyone who has such a deep historical accomplishment, who can master the teaching language so well, and other humble and flattering words like this, as if just mentioned in passing. Don't write too deliberately, so that others can see that you are begging for me. If you really don't know how to write a recommendation letter, you can refer to the preface to Grech's "Grammar Reader" or Grech's preface to Bulgarin's novel, which are all models of this kind of praise.

As a leader of Russian literature, you have a reputation that is not always good, but you still have a lot of weight in his eyes. But I am a poor creature, almost nothing to him. If you are really willing to write him a letter, it is very necessary for me. The Minister of Education seems to be willing to do everything he can for me. As long as the inspector can promote it from his side, even if it is just a few good words, then this matter will definitely be established.

Of course, I am not asking you to write this letter to deceive you. At your suggestion, I am now writing a most complete history of Little Russia. It will be in six small volumes, or four large volumes.

There is no complete and satisfactory history of Little Russia and its peoples in Russia. I have decided to undertake this work and show in as much detail as possible how this part of Russia was separated and what kind of political system it acquired under the domination of foreign peoples. How the militaristic nation, marked by its very unique character and outstanding achievements, was formed on this land. How it gained its rights with weapons in its hands for three centuries, and stubbornly defended its religion, and how it was finally incorporated into Russia forever. How its militaristic way of life disappeared and turned into an agricultural society, how the whole country gradually acquired new rights that replaced the old ones, and finally merged completely with Russia.

I have spent about five years and with great industry in collecting the various historical materials relating to this country, and am nearly finished with the first part of my history, but I am in no hurry to publish its first few volumes, because I suspect that there are still many original materials, perhaps unknown to me, but undoubtedly preserved in some private hands.

On the way back from Kiev, I met a Cossack, General Pavel Andreevich Barkov, a hero of the Caucasian Wars, who had fought in several campaigns against the Persians. The general was a Little Russian by birth and had originally been a military doctor. When I told him that I was writing a history of Little Russia, he became very interested in me and invited me to go with him.

He had a very beautiful large carriage, one of those things with beams and springs. You know, riding in a country cart and a carriage like that is very good for health, especially for people who suffer from depression and hemorrhoids. We rode in this carriage and talked about Little Russia and the character of the Little Russians.

The general also told me that his mission this time was to investigate the history of Pugachev's rebellion on behalf of the relevant committee of the Ministry of Internal Affairs, and he believed that the information he collected would definitely be helpful to the history of Little Russia that I was writing.

This should have been a pleasant and amusing journey, and it was. But when the carriage arrived at the small town of Druisk in Vitebsk Province, the journey became even more hilarious. You probably can't imagine what I encountered in this small town? This doesn't seem like a true story at all. Maybe I should write a farce based on this incident.

—Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol, to Pushkin, January 1833, The Gogol Letters

On a cold winter day, snowflakes were flying outside and the temperature was so low that people dared not go out much. In this quiet little town, the wooden door of the hotel could not withstand the ravages of time and seemed like it would collapse in the wind and snow at any time.

Gogol sat on a hard stool enduring severe pain, his neck wrapped in a thick scarf like an ancient knight about to go to the battlefield, and his sitting posture was strangely stiff, as if even his muscles and bones could not move as he wished due to illness.

Every time he tried to adjust his body position slightly in order to gain a little relief from the unbearable pain, the spreading burning sensation and piercing pain dragged him into deep torment again.

Gogol, who was restless, glanced out the window from time to time and saw the Cossacks walking hurriedly on the street, but all he could think of was complaining about his physical discomfort.

"Damn it! This small place is so inefficient! Oh... If I had known that I was doing useless work, I wouldn't have made a special trip to Kiev. It's really a hassle for me."

Gogol covered his buttocks with one indecent hand, feeling that the affected part was about to crack due to the severe cold and dry weather. "No, even if I hit a wall, I still have to go to Kiev! I really can't stand the weather in St. Petersburg for a day. The doctors all advised me to leave St. Petersburg as soon as possible. If I continue to live in St. Petersburg for a few more years, I will die of blood loss due to cracked buttocks. A person who is destined to do great work will die for such a ridiculous reason. I don't want to become a laughing stock for future generations."

Just as Gogol was feeling sad and suffering from illness in the cold hotel, he suddenly heard light footsteps outside the door.

Then the door was pushed open, and General Barkov's tall, bear-like figure appeared at the door.

He narrowed his eyes and stared at Gogol, a look of concern on his face: "Mr. Gogol, are you okay?"

Gogol smiled bitterly and could not help complaining: "Ah, General, this is ridiculous! I came out of Petersburg and wanted to make a living for myself in a warm place, but this place has become my 'sanatorium'. My condition has not been getting better, and even I am almost doubting whether God does not want me to have a peaceful life."

He grabbed the thick scarf around his neck and said with a self-deprecating smile, "Really...even my butt won't let me walk far."

Barkov held the pipe in his hand and shook his head. "You are indeed a little weak. Logically, I have to take your feelings into consideration and take you directly back to Petersburg. But the orders from above must be completed. Please understand. I have asked them to hurry up as much as possible."

Gogol pursed his lips and took a deep breath, trying to appear less distressed, even though it was a futile effort: "I am really grateful that you still care about me despite my situation."

Suddenly, a cold wind blew into the hotel, and snowflakes floated in with the wind and hit Gogol's face.

Before Gogol could react, he saw more than a dozen Russian gendarmes in neat uniforms appear at the door, and the atmosphere instantly became tense.

Among them, the leader was Military Police Captain Richard Huett.

He was dressed in a dark military uniform with a heavy winter coat on the outside. The epaulettes gleamed coldly in the cold sunlight, making him look cold and majestic.

His eyes were sharp, like a blade, carrying a power that could not be ignored.

Huette walked straight into the room without making any announcements, glancing at Barkov and Gogol, as if he had no intention of changing his mind because of anyone's identity or status.

When General Barkov saw this, a hint of anger immediately flashed in his eyes.

He thought that the gendarmerie captain was just an officer of the Druisk garrison, but he didn't expect that this man would be so presumptuous.

In anger, he almost lost his composure: "Devil, peel off the skin of your ancestors! Do you think that just because you are a captain, you can throw cold water on others in this cold weather? You simply don't take me seriously!"

Huette remained unmoved, his eyes were as cold as ice, and he didn't care about Barkov's provocation at all.

When he stood still, a deep and clear voice broke the silence in the room: "Colonel Artur Agaresovich Hestingov is here!"

This sudden report stunned Barkov, and then he raised his eyebrows, revealing some doubts and confusion: "Colonel Hastingov?" Footsteps sounded, the steps were steady and silent, and there was almost no echo.

Immediately afterwards, a tall figure slowly appeared in front of the door of the hotel, like a goblin walking out of the snow.

The snowflakes outside seemed to be suppressed by the momentum, and even the wind and snow stopped at this moment.

The petty officials standing outside the door, their noses red from the cold, couldn't help but shiver.

At this moment, the mayor hurried forward and put on his heavy coat.

The mayor moved quickly and respectfully, as if he was afraid that the important man might have caught a cold.

The sunlight shone on the face of the visitor. His face was carved by the cold wind like a cold stone sculpture, with angular cheeks, furrowed brows and slightly upturned eyes. His body was upright and his shoulders were broad, as if he could bear the weight of the whole world.

Arthur stared at Barkov for a while, then he raised his lips and extended his hand to introduce himself: "Artur Agaresovich Hestingov, the special staff officer of the Second District of the Military Police Regiment under the Third Bureau of His Majesty's Imperial Office."

Upon hearing this, Barkov couldn't help but look at her with disgust.

Perhaps because Huett and the others were following him, Barkov did not doubt Arthur's identity at all. He just thought he was unlucky and could only mutter in a low voice: "Curse these third-instance dog spies who deserve to go to hell."

He wiped his hands on his uniform, reluctantly shook Arthur's hand and said, "Pavel Andreevich Barkov, commander of the 2nd Ukrainian Cossack Cavalry Regiment, is on patrol here by order of the Ministry of Internal Affairs."

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The municipal officials of Druisk had all hunched their heads, like frightened little chickens.

But when they saw that the colonel from St. Petersburg was not at all afraid of the brigadier general who was one rank higher than him, they seemed to have grown backbones all of a sudden and even straightened their backs.

Arthur saw that although the other party disliked him, at least he didn't show any disrespect, so he found a topic to ease the atmosphere: "I saw that horse outside. It has a strong body and is very wild. Its long black mane is like a beauty from the south. Is that horse yours?"

When Barkov heard someone praising his beloved, he put down his pipe and softened his tone: "Yes, that's my Agrafena Ivanovna. She's a good girl, fast on her feet and with great endurance. She followed me all the way through the Caucasus War. Except for her being a little arrogant and liking to bite people, there's nothing wrong with her."

Arthur nodded slightly. "It is indeed a good horse. A good horse must be paired with a good car. You should get her a high-end car to pull it."

"Carriage?" Barkov said with disdain, "This is a horse for people to ride."

"I know that," Arthur said, "but what I want to ask you is, do you have a carriage that matches the other horses? I know that even the horses that pull the carriages in the Cossack regiment are generally the best. I saw the carriage outside and it looks a bit old."

"Oh... I don't have enough carriages." Barkov didn't want to lose face in front of the gendarmes. He said, "To be honest, I have long wanted a fashionable carriage. I just wrote to my brother in Petersburg and asked him to get me a new one."

"I think, General," Arthur said, "you can't just get a new carriage. You have to get a Viennese carriage. Viennese carriages are the best. They are as light as a feather. When you sit in them, it's like a nanny is rocking you in a cradle!"

Barkov was moved by Arthur's words. He asked casually, "How much does a car like this cost?"

Arthur did not answer directly, but turned to the mayor and asked, "Alexei, how much did your custom-made Viennese carriage cost?"

The mayor knew exactly what Arthur was saying. How could he not know that Arthur was pointing at him: "My car?"

"That car must be very comfortable to sit in, right?" Barkov asked.

The mayor stammered back, "It's very, very comfortable. The padding, the springs, the whole thing is just as it's pictured."

"Hmm..." Barkov pinched his chin and fell into deep thought.

The mayor saw this and immediately had an idea in his mind. He knew that this was a good thing, so he quickly struck while the iron was hot and said, "Also, the carriage is very spacious! In other words, General, I have never seen such a good carriage before. For example, when you serve in the army, the wooden box of the carriage can be stuffed with ten bottles of rum and 20 pounds of tobacco. In addition, it is more than enough to bring six sets of uniforms, underwear and two long pipes. General, please don't be offended, maybe this example is a bit disgusting, but the carriage is really as long as a tapeworm, and the bag is big enough to put a bull!"

Barkov nodded in a muffled voice: "Not bad."

The mayor smiled and said, "General, the original price of that car was four thousand rubles."

"It must be a good car for the price. Did you buy it yourself?"

"No, General. I got it by accident. It was bought by a friend of mine, a rare good fellow, my childhood friend, with whom you will get on very well, and with whom we are inseparable. I won it from him at cards. General, would you be so kind as to come to my house tomorrow for lunch and take a look at the car?"

Barkov was moved by what he said, but he was embarrassed to go alone. After all, he still had to take care of the feelings of his men. "I don't know how to tell you. It's a bit... well, I'm going to enjoy the food alone. I can't just watch these Cossack brothers under my command starve, right?"

"Of course not." The mayor was very generous. "I also invite all the Cossack gentlemen to come. Gentlemen, if you are willing to come to my humble house, it will be a great honor for me, Bakaldin!"

At this moment, even the other Cossack officers with stern faces bowed respectfully to express their gratitude.

At this point, the mayor did not forget to ask for Arthur's opinion: "Colonel, look at tomorrow's menu. Sturgeon, sturgeon, ground quail, asparagus, quail, partridge, mushrooms, and so on. Do you want to eat anything else?"

Before Arthur opened his mouth, he heard a painful groaning sound coming from the hotel.

Everyone's eyes were focused on Gogol, who was sitting at the table, gritting his teeth and burying his head in pain. Arthur pointed at him and asked the general, "Sir, is this person from your regiment?"

"Ah? This one?" Barkov didn't know how to explain Gogol's embarrassing condition to Arthur, so he could only say cryptically: "This is a writer I met on the road, Mr. Gogol, and he has some unspeakable secrets. Excuse me, can you prepare a hot blanket for him to cushion his butt?"

(End of this chapter)